


sentiment, schadenfreude, and a sense of superiority

by apolliades



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arguing, Friends With Benefits, Kissing, M/M, Post-Coital, Slice of Life, have fun, if you can call them friends, it was meant to be part of a bigger thing i'm never going to finish, this is from last year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 01:00:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18419564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: He always gets dressed in exactly the same order: pants, shirt, left sock, right sock, trousers. Sometimes Eames wonders what might happen to him if he were to do it a little differently — put his shirt on first, for example — but most of the time he tries not to think too much into it.





	sentiment, schadenfreude, and a sense of superiority

Very occasionally, Eames is wrong. More frequently, he is arrogant. From time to time, the two coincide, which is far worse than either. 

“Of course he was playing you,” Arthur scoffs, giving Eames a look of condescending incredulity which Eames is pretty certain he reserves specifically for him.

He’s on the desk chair in Eames’ relatively shit hotel room, pulling on his anal-retentively neat socks, making that face. He always gets dressed in exactly the same order: pants, shirt, left sock, right sock, trousers. Sometimes Eames wonders what might happen to him if he were to do it a little differently — put his shirt on first, for example — but most of the time he tries not to think too much into it.

If he’s going to be sharing someone’s subconscious for extended periods of time, Eames finds, there’s a line past which knowing their neuroses too intimately becomes more of a hazard than a help.

“You think a man like that wouldn’t have his guard up?”

“I had every detail down,” he says, too lazily for it to really count as a proper retort. “Whatever tipped him off, it can’t have been a mistake on my part.”

Arthur moves on to his next sock. Eames feels a distant longing for a cigarette, even though he hasn’t smoked regularly in years.

“He’s probably got shares in Somnacin, for fuck’s sake,” Arthur mutters.

“Doesn’t matter.” Eames diverts his gaze from where Arthur’s unfolding his trousers from the back of the chair, looks up at the yellowing ceiling instead. These conversations only ever seem to happen post-coitally, now. Apparently, somewhere down the line, they must have lost the heat that once upon a time turned arguments into passion, could’ve kept them going at it through an earthquake; these days Eames only has to so much as put a word wrong and Arthur pounces on the opportunity to stop and chew him out instead, so he doesn’t say anything much till afterwards, anymore. “He doesn’t know my face. I’ll figure out a better play and go back in.”

“Yeah? Good luck with that.”

When Eames looks back at him Arthur is dressed again, impeccably, as if he’s fresh out of his box. He wonders suddenly whether distain really is all Arthur feels towards his cock-up, whether there’s any remnants of sincerity in his wishing him luck. Whether there’s any more to his interest than pure Schadenfreude and a sense of superiority.

“Wait, Arthur,” he says, on a whim, halting Arthur’s tracks towards the door. Arthur looks at him with an eyebrow raised and a slight pursing of his lips. Eames hauls himself up from where he’d been lounging against the pillows and sits with his legs over the edge of the mattress. He's still naked. “Come here for a sec.”

“Why?”

“Just — stop being such a stubborn arse and come here.”

After a beat and an irritated little exhale, Arthur does. He stops not quite between Eames’ legs and looks at him expectantly, head cocked like a spaniel. “What?”

Eames takes him gently by the lapels and coaxes him down, but Arthur stops a palm away and wrinkles his nose. “You smell like Angostura and sex sweat.”

“Never used to bother you.”

“Eames—”

Eames pulls him the rest of the way and kisses him anyway, open-mouthed and slow, and despite his protests Arthur presses into it after a moment, opens his mouth for the gentle scrape of Eames’ teeth. And when they break apart he sighs, just softly; he has his hand over Eames’ wrist, although Eames knows well enough that he’s probably just concerned for his jacket.

“For old times’ sake,” Eames says, smoothing his lapels.

Arthur leaves him alone with no more than a quirk of his brow. Eames falls back across the bed with a groan, and wonders when the fuck he started getting sentimental.


End file.
